“Where’s that?” the Highway Patrolman asked, just a faint hint of self-doubt creeping into his voice.
“Bustleton and Bowler,” Matt said.
“Where’s your ID?”
“In my jacket pocket,” Matt said.
The Highway Patrolman dipped into the pocket and found the ID.
“Jesus!” he said, then, “Turn around.”
Matt felt his wrists being freed.
“What’s this?” the second Highway Patrolman said.
“He’s a cop,” the first one said. “He says he works for Inspector Wohl.”
“Why didn’t you show us this when we pulled up beside you?” the second asked, more confused than angry.
Matt shrugged helplessly.
“You find anything wrong with the way we handled this?” the first Highway Patrolman asked.
“Excuse me?” Matt asked, confused.
“We stopped an eighty-five-mile-an-hour speeder, and found a weapon concealed under his seat. We asked permission to examine the car. We took necessary and reasonable precautions by restraining a man we found in possession of two concealable firearms. Anything wrong with that?”
Matt shrugged helplessly.
“Isn’t that what this is all about? You were checking on us?”
Matt suddenly understood.
“What this is all about is that this is my first day on the job,” he said. “And I decided I’d rather pay the ticket than have Inspector Wohl find out about it.”
They both looked at him. And both of their faces, by raised eyebrows, registered disbelief.
And then the taller of them, the one who had found the revolver under the seat, laughed, and the other joined in.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he said.
The taller Highway Patrolman, shaking his head and smiling with what Matt perceived to be utter contempt, handed him the Chief’s Special and then the cartridges for it. The shorter one looped the shoulder holster harness around Matt’s neck. Then, chuckling, they walked back to their car and got in.
By the time Matt got back in his car, they had driven off.
Officer Matthew Payne drove the rest of the way to his apartment more or less scrupulously obeying the speed limit.
It was after the change of watches when Peter Wohl returned to his office. The day-watch Sergeants had gone home; an unfamiliar face of a Highway Patrol Sergeant was behind the desk.
“I’m Peter Wohl,” Peter said, walking to the desk with his hand extended.
“Yes, sir, Inspector,” the Sergeant said, smiling. “I know who you are. We went through Wheel School together.”
Wohl still didn’t remember him, and it showed on his face.
“I had hair then,” the Sergeant said, “and I was a lot trimmer. Jack Kelvin.”
“Oh, hell, sure,” Wohl said. “I’m sorry, Jack. I should have remembered you.”